


The Wandering Jew

by horrorjew



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Jewish Character, Judaism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:42:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21536161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/horrorjew/pseuds/horrorjew
Summary: Stanley Uris thinks about birds, plants, winter, his father, and the story of the Wandering Jew.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	The Wandering Jew

Stanley Uris hated the winter. He could take the frigid cold of Maine, the careful treading over the icy sidewalks to avoid slipping, the heat rising into his cheeks as he piled on the scarves and jackets his father made him wear. What he hated, more than the weather and the embarrassment, was when all of the birds that pecked at his birdhouses flew South. He loved to prop himself up on his elbows, on his spindly arms, as he watched the feathers and beaks mingle over the pile of bird seed he threw out every morning before school.  


When they left, he replaced his grief. He focused on tending to the houseplants. His father didn’t care about them much, it was a hobby of women, but Stanley liked finding any new growths. A tiny sprout of basil, another stripe on the leaf of a peacock plant. Sometimes, when it got real cold, the frost from the windows would creep onto the tips of the leaves. The purple plants would sparkle like a sunset-clad sky. The green plants seemed dewy with life, a shiny emerald attached to a ruddy stem. His favorite plant was a mix of these, lavender and lime: the Wandering Jew. It was named after a man who crossed Jesus on his path to crucifixion, and mocked him. Because of this, he was cursed to wander the countryside forever. No matter how tired his legs got, how violently his withered bones shook, how years of dirt caked beneath his feet...it wouldn’t matter. He’d have to walk forever. Stan was obsessed with the story, wondering how much happier it would be if the man had wings. He could fly above the world, watching through immortal eyes as the earth changed beneath him.

He realized that that’s probably why he loved birds so much. They can leave and return as they please. They eat his seeds but they don’t have to. They have their own rules, no fathers to disappoint. And, most importantly, they had wings. He told his dad once that if he had them, he’d fly over to the desert and find that Wandering Jew. And he’d do what G-d couldn’t, he’d take sympathy upon him. He’d pick him up beneath his shoulders, hands under his armpits, and would carry him up into the air. He’d fly around for a year, giving the ancient man rest from his time-weary journey.  


“That story isn’t true, Stanley,” He scolded.  


“It isn’t? But I read it,”  


“G-d wouldn’t curse a Jew like that. We’re his chosen people,”  


“But maybe if he thinks the Jew insulted his son, then he’d get angry enough to do it,”  


“Jesus wasn’t his son. We are his chosen people,” He repeated.  


“If that’s true, how come our lives are so bad?”  


“Stanley, _sheket_ ,”  


“Why? It’s true. Mass suicides, mass genocides, mass exiles.” The boy huffed. “Whenever something bad happens, it happens to all of us.”  


“Being chosen...means suffering. That way, when you die, you can look at your life and think ‘all that pain, it all lead to this.’”  


“So, we’re born for pain? Why not just stay where we came from, then? I don’t see the point.” He pressed his lips together in thought.  


“The point is that life is never easy. If it was, you wouldn’t ask me all these questions. Now, go clean the kitchen.”  


“You’re trying to get rid of me,” He sighed, standing up in dissatisfaction and departing to do his chore.  


His father watched him go, “And you’re wise beyond your years.”  


He could never be sure that his son heard him say that. He wished he had said it a little louder. He shouldn’t have worried.

Stanley thought of their conversation as he lowered himself into the bathtub. The steamy water held him in an apprehensive embrace, cradling him like a womb. He wondered if the rest of the Jews of the world would feel him depart. If they would be proud of him for facing a demon, and know that with his death he would be helping the others do the same. Would they understand that he never shook the story of that immortal Wandering Jew, clutching the trauma from Derry like his walking stick?  


When it happened, as his consciousness drained, he thought of a bird. A bird that looked like an adolescent boy with curly hair. Wings coming out of his back, batting against the breeze, carrying him over the ocean. Carrying him to freedom. To a world without suffering, without pain, full of puzzles and sparrows and plants. Full of friends.  


Stanley Uris. Wise beyond his years.


End file.
